Straight to the Pointe
by DedicatedRusher
Summary: Abbi is better now. She's eating again, dating guys who are almost appropriate, and well on her way to becoming an elite ballet dancer. But when her oldest friend, Carlos, returns home after spending four long years with his kidnapper, Abbi starts reliving memories about his abduction-and his abductor.
1. Chapter 1

_**Okay so I started a new story...and wow this is long...I'M SORRY! And for this story please ignore everything you know about the boys except the fact that they're in Minnesota (You'll see why later). Ummm... I think that's all! Enjoy!**_

* * *

I wish I could say the day Carlos came home was extraordinary from the start. That I woke up knowing something special would happen that Thursday evening in October.

But the truth is, it's like any other day of the week.

I go to school, then I get on the train and go to ballet.

People fawn over the beauty of dance; the long legs and elegant shoes and expertly twisted buns. And it's not that they're wrong. Those are all part of the reason I was drawn to ballet at the age of three. But I'd be willing to bet those same people have never set foot in the dressing room of a dance studio. Because you can't quite look at it the same once you've been on the other side.

Straight chaos.

And I'm late, because the Metra never wants to run on schedule when I actually have to be somewhere that matters. I squeeze into an empty corner by the lockers and toss my coat to the floor as I step out of my flats. Everyone is chattering away in various stages of undress, but I'm the only one still wearing all my street clothes. Logan once mentioned he'd like to be a fly on the dressing room wall, and I laughed in his face when I realized he was serious. It's all A-cups and square hips in here and he said it didn't matter, that boobs are boobs, but I think he'd be underwhelmed. Also, it reeks of body odor and feet.

I glance to my right, where Ruthie Pathman perches on the edge of the bench, already slipping on her toe shoes. Her back is set in a perfectly straight line and there's not a curl out of place in her tight, tight bun.

"Staring at me won't help you get dressed any faster, Cartwright." She says this without looking in my direction."

"Not all of us have the luxury of driving ourselves into the city," I say as I tug on my tights. "The train was late."

But I pull them up too fast, and a run appears mid-thigh, fast and final. I probably have a new pair somewhere in my dance bag, but I don't have time to deal with that right now. The other girls are already beginning to file out of the room and I'm not even in my leotard.

Ruthie shoves her bag into her locker. "You'll have to think of a better excuse than that. Nobody likes the blame game."

She winks at me after reciting one of our ballet instructor's favorite lines, then snaps her combination lock shut. In a certain light, Ruthie looks like one of those angels pictured in the Bible—pale skin and wheat-colored curls and big-soulful blue eyes. But the only angelic thing about her is her dancing. She's tiny but she's been in more physical fights than anyone I know, guys included. And that's saying a lot—I go to school with a disproportionate number of assholes.

She walks through the doorway then pokes her head back into the dressing room. "Three minutes." Her lips curve into a canary-eating smile before she closes the door firmly behind her.

I can get away with lacing my shoes in the studio, but I still have to put up my hair and Marisa flips when she sees so much as a stray hairpin. It's all regimented: solid black leotard, blush-pink tights, no loose hair. I am so screwed. I gather up the pile of clothing pooled around my feet and throw it all in my locker. And I'm just going to have to chance being screamed at about my hair because I'll be locked out if I don't run.

The ribbons on my pointe shoes tangle around my ankles and heels with every step, conspiring to trip me as I dash down the corridor. Thanks to the snug elastic against my ankles, I manage to stay upright and fly into the studio only seconds after the official start of class, before Marisa will lock the door for the next hour and a half. She never lets anyone watch the senior company practice.

Marisa is also serious about punctuality, so much that if you are even two minutes late, she will open the door only to stare you down and ask you to leave. We all learned long ago to set our watched to the studio's clocks. I'm never late and I am her favorite, so I expect a warning at the most. But she's not standing near the door at all. Instead, she's in the far front corner of the room, going over sheet music with an accompanist I've never seen before. She's so preoccupied that my lateness doesn't even register. I smirk at Ruthie as I use the extra time to tie up the ribbons on my shoes and fashion the thick black hair that crests my shoulder blades into an acceptable bun.

This place feels more like home than home sometimes. There are three studios in the building and they all look the same: sprung floors to absorb shock and protect our feet and joints; long wooden barres running along two sides of the room, their surfaces worn from the grip of so many hands; one whole wall made of mirrored panels that can make you feel like the Swan Queen on your best day and a bloated, dizzy mess on your worst. This is the only studio without windows and it's my favorite because it means there are no outside distractions.

There are twelve people in the senior company and most of us have danced together since we were kids. Nine girls, three boys; attitude and ego for days. Caryn has amazing turnout, and some days I'd kill for Elissa's arms and the height of Toby's leaps as he propels himself into the air. But I have good feet—these arches were _made_ for pointe shoes—and good musicality, and it may sound conceited, but I know I'm one of the best dancers in this class.

Ruthie stands at the barre, stretching her hamstrings. "Saved by the substitute accompanist. Impressive."

"Where's Betty?" I ask as I take my spot next to her. Kaitlin is on the other side of me, sitting a few feet away from the barre in her right split. I can see the muscles in her legs tense under her tights as she stretches to the tips of her toes.

Ruthie shrugs. "No idea, but where'd they find this guy? He looks kind of…grungy."

"You're a snob."

But then I turn to get a better look at him and—oh.

Ruthie looks at me curiously. "You know him or something?"

I do. He goes to school with me in Ashland Hills, our little suburb outside of Minneapolis. He's a year older. A senior. And he is Logan's dealer.

"I think he goes to my school," I say, and face the barre so I won't have to wonder what he's doing in my ballet class.

Marisa finally crosses the room to close the door, then stands in front, waiting for our attention. She doesn't have to wait long; she's the kind of person who commands attention, whether she's trying to or not. We're all intimidated, but not because she's scary, not like the tales of evil ballet mistresses patrolling the room to poke us when we mess up. More because she's a former professional dancer and this is her studio and we've all seen what she can do on a stage. I found her old bio once, and according to my math she's in her mid-forties now. She doesn't look much older than her twenty-year-old head shot, though.

"Before we start today, I'd like to introduce you to our new accompanist," she says.

New? Marisa is careful with her words. She would never introduce a substitute as someone "new". When I glance at him, his eyes are already on me. It turn back to Marisa. She tells us Betty's husband is sick. Alzheimer's. everyone is quiet because we know Betty has been with her husband since high school. They had children and she always said the only two things that mattered in life were her husband and the piano, in that order. It's not fair that she won't always have both.

"In the meantime, everyone please welcome Kendall Knight, the newest addition to our studio family," Marisa says with a smile. "Kendall comes with a strong musical background and we're lucky to have him."

A strong musical background? Either this is the best-kept secret in all of Ashland Hills High or Marisa is totally fucking with us, because I wasn't aware he could play any instruments. Kendall gives us a nod followed by a smile you would miss if you looked away for even a second. His blonde hair is long, like he hadn't had a haircut in a while. He wears the same clothes I've seen him in for as long as I can remember: faded jeans, a black T-shirt, and black boots with a heavy sole.

Our eyes meet again. He knows me. Not very well, but I see him at school sometimes and at most of the parties. And once, I went with Logan to pick up and eighth at his house, and Kendall looked out at the street from beneath the hood of his sweatshirt and saw me sitting in the passenger seat of Logan's car. Kendall is pretty much focused on pills and Logan usually sticks to pot, but they're friends, so he makes an exception for Logan.

Until now, my school and ballet worlds have been segregated, except for a handful of recitals Camille has talked her way into attending. But now Kendall is here and I don't know how I feel about it and he just keeps staring at me, until I give in first and look away. Ruthie catches all this and flicks her eyes to the ceiling as we line up at the barre in first position for plié.

I've been dancing so long that ballet has become an extension of me. I can no longer stretch my kegs without pointing my toes, and I'm always aware of my arms, my back, the roll of my shoulders. As I walk between classrooms, while I'm rinsing dishes, even when I'm picking out apples with Mom at the market.

Some people associate memories with music, but I can align most of mine with dancing. The mere mention of chicken pox send gold-sequined swatches through my mind as I remember secretly suffering during my fourth-grade recital, how I dug my fingers into the stretchy fabric of my costume again and again when no one was looking, because if they knew, they wouldn't let me dance. The slightest whiff of menthol reminds me of two years ago, when I developed tendinitis and kept slathering my ankle in smelly ointment to numb the pain.

Dancing on pointe reminds me of Trent. I got my first pair of toe shoes when I was twelve and he became my first boyfriend a year later. It's not just the timing, though. I fell for him as fast as I grew to love pointe work, so for me, the two are forever linked. He asked to see my pointe shoes a couple of weeks after we'd been together. I slowly pulled them out of my dance bag in the front seat of his car and slipped one onto his lap, the ribbons swimming between us in silky waves. I'd just gotten a new pair, so they were still unmarred; a soft, sweet pink against the dark blue of his jeans. He slid his hands around the satin almost wonderingly, then looked over and said they were pretty, like me. Sometimes I'd complain about the pain in my feet and he'd say I should quit if it hurt so much. I don't think he understood that it was all worth it, sore feet and ankles included. The only thing _he_ seemed at all passionate about was _me_.

Some days, in the beginning, I was so tired from dancing on pointe that I didn't feel like going to class. And some days, I didn't feel like doing what I did with Trent. Lots of times, he was exactly what I wanted, and I felt sexy when he pinned me to the backseat of his car with just his torso as he whispered in my ear that I was special. But sometimes I wished we could go back to the kissing and slow touching with all our clothes on. On those days, I couldn't understand why sex with him made me feel a little dirty. After all, we'd been doing it for months.

We stretch and strengthen our ankles and feet as we work through tendu and dégagé, rotate our hips through the arc of rond de jambe. My favorite barre exercise is grand battement. It's so powerful, thrusting one leg as high in the air as you can and returning it to the supporting leg quickly, but with total control. To really pull it off, both legs have to stay perfectly straight as we execute grand battement devant, à la seconde, and derriere—to the front, side, and back—on both sides.

Once we're finished at the barre, we move from our place along the wall to start center work. The center exercises are similar to what we just finished, but we're warmed up now, so we can perform them without the additional support of the barre.

By the time we get to allegro, my muscles are limber and my legs lengthen straight and assured. I hold myself up with the invisible string Marisa always talks about, the one that makes my leaps sky-high, my neck long and elegant. Even now, even with his music serving as my soundtrack, I am able to put Kendall out of my mind and dance like no one else is in the room. I feel Marisa's eyes on me. I'm worried she thinks I look tired, so I make my next jeté count even more than the others.

I allow myself to sneak another look at Kendall. He's good. Very good, like he's been playing piano as long as I've been dancing. It's the same classical music we've danced to for years, yet there's also a personal connection that makes each note seem fuller, more meaningful, as if the piece was crafted specifically for our ballet class. I couldn't be more surprised, and I wonder if there are rules about revealing that kind of thing in his world. Like piano is for sissies and you damn well better hide it if you don't want to be labeled as such.

I'm exhausted when Marisa dismisses class. I dance three nights a week and every Saturday. Each time, I leave dripping with sweat, my chest heaving and my legs burning. Today, I wonder just how bad I look and avoid glancing at the piano before I leave the room.

I have a standing dinner date with Camille and Logan after ballet on Thursdays. It sounds fancy, but it's not like we're sitting in a dimly lit restaurant with tablecloths and heavy flatware. It's always Casablanca's and always the back booth with the cracks vinyl seats and a dirty sugar dispenser in place of sweetener packets.

Sometimes we drive around and smoke a bowl before we want to go into the diner. Today would've been a good day for that. The winters are shitty, but nothing beats October in Minneapolis. I know it means everything is dying, but I could stare at the leaves for days—the burnt gold and burgundy and flaming orange hues bursting from tree branches. I like the fat pumpkins perched on front porches and how the air is perfect—cool but not freezing, warm enough under the sun but not stifling.

But we can't drive around today because Logan has a trigonometry test tomorrow and wants to study. His boxy sedan and Camille Robert's powder-blue Bug already sit in the lot when I arrive from the train station. I slide into the booth just in time to hear Logan extolling the virtues of Goodwill over independent thrift stores. Logan Mitchell has an opinion on everything and it's usually the least popular one if he can help it.

"How was class?" Camille turns to me almost gratefully. Logan's impassioned rants are too much for even her sometimes.

"Fine. Except—"

"Except what?" She moves a strand of brunette-colored hair behind her ear and reaches for the menus tucked behind the ketchup and mustard bottles.

"Except…I was late because of the stupid train," I say as I stack my bag and coat on the empty seat next to Logan.

"He stops pulling his trig textbook from his back to look at me, his dark eyes narrowed. "Good story, Abbi."

I made a face at Logan before proceeding. "I have a question."

"The answer is probably no."

"I'll take my chances." I lower my voice a little. "Do you still get your pot from Kendall Knight?"

"Of course." Logan looks at me carefully. "You in the market?"

"No way." Camille shakes her head emphatically across the table. "Half the fun is freeloading from Logan. You can't buy your own."

"I'm not," I say, laughing at the look Logan shoots her. "But a friend might be. In the market, that is."

"Pills or grass?"

"Shrooms," I say, just to throw him off his game.

His face creases. "That's random. What friend is this? Everyone at school goes through Kendall."

"A friend from dance. She doesn't go to school here."

"I can check and get back to you."

"No, it's okay." God, what would Kendall do if he knew I was asking about him? "She said all the guys in the city are flakes or creeps, so she was looking for someone chill."

"Kendall's the most chill dude I know." Logan raises and eyebrow at me like this is common knowledge. "If he can't get them, he'll find someone who can."

"No, it's fine." I pretend to search for something in my bag so Logan can't see my lying eyes. "She probably wasn't serious anyway."

Camille twirls a straw among the ice cubes in her cup. "I don't think I've heard Kendall say more than twenty words that whole time I've known him."

"Probably because he can't get a word in around James." Logan opens his book to the study guide section.

"Why are they friends anyway?" I ask, buttoning my cardigan all the way to the top. It's pilled from too many washings and the once-vibrant green has faded into a murky olive, but I keep it in my bag for trips to Casablanca's because it is _always_ freezing in here. Too much A/C in the summer, not enough heat in the winter.

"It's not that complicated." Logan shrugs, scratching the side of his nose. "Kendall has the drugs. James has the money."

"Kendall is cute," Camille says thoughtfully before she sips from her straw. "But I do not like his big black boots. They're oppressive."

The sixtysomething waitress who's been giving us the stinkeye since I got here trudges over from behind the counter to take our order. Jana. She hates us and is here every time we are. Or maybe that's why she hates us. She taps the sole of her dingy canvas sneaker against the floor as she recited the daily specials, sighs when Camille takes too long to decide between fried pickles and onion rings to accompany her grilled cheese. Logan orders a bowl of chili.

Everyone bitches that the lentil soup here is bland but I choose it because I know exactly what I'm getting. They put it on the menu after someone complained about the lack of vegetarian options, and the cooks either don't know or don't care how to prepare it well. So it's kind of mushy and virtually tasteless, but at least I don't have to worry about creams or cheeses in my soup.

Someone asks Jana to turn up the television when she walks back behind the counter, and that's when I notice. Every person on a stool and in a booth, every server and busboy and fry cook is staring at the television hung in the corner of the diner. Usually it's tuned to soap operas or Wild games or crappy made-for-TV movies.

But today everyone's eyes are glued to the breaking news report on the screen, and our eyes follow. At first I think it's the exhaustion from class catching up to me now that I'm able to relax. Because as I look at the news anchor, the camera flickers from her face to the picture of my old best friend.

My dead best friend.

I'm standing and then I'm walking toward the counter without thinking, oblivious to Camille and Logan, who are close behind.

Carlos's name comes up once or twice a year—on the anniversary of his disappearance or when someone submits a false lead. Like, someone saw him in a Burger King in Vermont, or he was spotted in line at an amusement park in Utah. I figured out a long time ago to stop believing I would see him again. He was my best friend, but everyone knows kids missing longer than twenty-four hours are sexually abused or killed or both.

But this time is different. The news anchor's glossy lips are stretched into a smile and she stumbles over her words, trips over the last-minute script. She's telling us that he's alive. Carlos has been found.

My ears are the first things to go. I can no longer hear voices, just this buzzing. Raw and unstoppable and I can't tell if Camille and Logan and the rest of the diner hear it, too, because then my eyes get stuck on the school picture that was taken the last year I saw him. I used to keep that picture in my nightstand, separate from the photos of my other classmates. Seeing it on-screen, I feel like someone has stolen my journal and displayed it for the world to see.

I am somewhat aware of the silence as I take in that for the first time ever, no one in this greasy spoon is saying a word. That they're all looking from the television to one another, slack-jawed. That Camille is stepping forward for a closer look, and Logan is rubbing my back, searching my face with his huge, dark eyes.

_Carlos is alive._

"They found that boy," Jana says, her hands gripping the black handle of a coffeepot.

I try to hold myself up, but these legs, these same legs that will dance me all the way to New York—they can't. They are made of jelly and I would fall to the ground if Logan didn't catch me. The particular combination of relief and confusion and elation is too big to comprehend, too big to do anything but lean on Logan in front of the counter, tears streaming down the hills of my cheeks until he and Camille lead me out on my jelly legs.

Outside into the brisk autumn air, where I catch my breath for the first time in minutes, where I say it aloud to convince myself it's true:

"Carlos is alive."

Carlos came back to us.

* * *

_***Hides behind hands* Okay how bad was it? Please review!**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Look at me, updating two days in a row. I'm expecting the writer's block wall to hit me very soon so don't expect this often.**_

* * *

My neighborhood is a shitshow.

The Garcia's house—Carlos's house—is two doors down from us, so our street is blocked off. I stop at the corner and show the policemen who I am, pull out my ID with unsteady hands as I try to look down the street to see what's happening. I've dreamed about this day plenty of times, but in my version, Carlos was standing outside on his porch—waiting for me like I've been waiting for him all these years. My version didn't look like this.

I receive an escort to my driveway and a couple of officers hold back the reporters while another walks me to my front door, smiles, and makes sure I'm safely inside before heading back down the porch steps.

The house is quiet and calm, the antithesis of the clicking shutters and shouted questions and hum of too many people on the other side of the door. I breathe in the silence.

"Mom?" I call out.

But I know she's not here. She works part-time in the research department of the library and today is her late day. Dad won't be home for another half hour, either. And I don't know what to do with myself, so I sit on the couch with my coat buttoned up to the neck and I wait.

Exactly thirty minutes later, I hear the slow crank of the garage door, my father's car pulling in, the creak of the door as it shudders to the ground. Then I hear his urgent footsteps, the flipping of light switches as he navigates his way through the dark house looking for me.

"In here," I say when he rushes past the living room doorway.

He loops back down the hallway and into the room, stands in front of me while he scratches the back of his head. "Did you get my messages? Mom and I both called you a few times."

His eyes are slightly dazed, his silver tie with teeny black polka dots askew. I gave him that tie for Father's Day last year. He uses everything I give him. Even the misshapen ceramic pencil cup I made in third-grade art class sits on the desk at his accounting firm in the city.

"Oh, yeah." I looked at my phone once, I think, to check the time. I don't remember hearing it ring or seeing the missed calls. "Sorry. I got distracted." I gesture toward the commotion on the other side of the curtains.

He smiles a bit. "Right. It's kind of a zoo out there. But what do you say we brave the paparazzi and go out to dinner when your mother gets home? We should celebrate."

"I already ate," I say, digging my fingers into the empty cushions on either side of me.

I don't realize this is a lie until I think about the cup of lentil soup that never came to the table. I wonder if Jana ever brought out our food, if she was pissed that we left without canceling our order.

"Could I stay here instead?" I twist my hands in my lap as I look at him. "I want to watch the news."

Dad has too much energy. He wants to get out. He can't stop fiddling with his collar and glancing toward the windows. But he smiles again, bigger this time. He says, "Of course, babygirl. You're right. It's probably best if we all stay in."

So that's how Mom finds us, side by side on the sofa in the den, watching the same story play out on different channels. She settles on the other side of me, and when our eyes meet, I have to look away because I see the happy tears in hers and if she starts crying, mine will spill over again. She puts her hand on top of mine as I turn back to the television.

_Carlos Garcia, 17, returned to his home in Minnesota after four years in captivity_

_ Breaking News: Minneapolis teen rescued from years-long abduction_

_ Locals call missing teen's return a miracle_

The news is the type of nonstop coverage that makes people turn away after a while, say they no longer care. I absorb it all, find a little pocket to store each new piece of information. The reports are vague. Every news anchor alludes to the abuse, brings up old long-term abduction cases and some that were never solved. They talk about where Carlos was found: a Las Vegas breakfast buffet, with the person they believe had him all these years. A few minutes past nine, the thick-haired anchor with the tired eyes says.

I was in second period. Chem. My throat tightens as I try to remember if I felt anything during class. But no. I was zoning out, same as any other day of the week.

Some of the channels show timelines to illustrate his life. They use fancy graphs and bold colors, but it all adds up to the same conclusion: thirteen years as a normal kid in Ashland Hills, four years at the mercy of a stranger. I wait and I wait, but they haven't revealed the identity of the abductor. All we know is there's a suspect in custody.

"You should get ready for bed," my mother says gently, around eleven.

The coverage has slowed except for the major cable news channels. There's nothing new to be learned at this point, but I'm afraid I'll miss something if I go to bed. I want to know who took him. What they did to him.

"He'll still be here in the morning," my mother says, as if she can read my mind.

Somehow I float up to my room and then I'm under the covers. But I can't sleep. How can someone be here every day for years, then disappear? How can they be gone so long and just come back on a Thursday, like that was the plan the whole time? I won't believe he's really here until I see him.

Carlos was brave. In a speak-first-think-later sort of way, but there was always truth behind his words. Like that day during our sixth-grade history lesson. I'd been dreading it all week because we were studying the Civil War and there's nothing worse than being the only black kid in class on the day your teacher talks about slavery.

Most days I don't think too much about being a novelty in this town. Minneapolis is really segregated, and my suburb is almost all white, but people don't treat me like there's a big divide or anything. We've been in school together for so long, it's like they forget my skin is darker until someone or something reminds them. And the slavery discussion is one of those instances. It goes one of two ways: either the teacher calls on you because you much be the expert, or they avoid you and look all around the room at your blonde-haired, blue-eyed classmates.

Mr. Hammond was old-school, so he jumped right in. Something about the modern-day effects of Jim Crow laws, and as soon as he finished his question, he looked right at me and said, "Abbi, maybe you have an example of how Jim Crow laws have affected you or your family so many decades later."

I felt eyes on me and I felt eyes trying _not_ to be on me. The room was so silent I heard Macy Wilkins's stomach growling in the next row. And no matter how hard I wished it, Mr. Hammond did _not_ get swallowed up by the floor and whisked away to a hell built for insensitive teachers.

While I was just sitting there, trying to figure out how to answer him without being exceptionally rude, I could tell Carlos, who sat on the other side of the room, was seething.

But I didn't expect him to say anything.

Before I could open my mouth, Carlos spoke for me. "Why did you call on Abbi, Mr. Hammond?"

Our teacher looked away from me, confused. "Excuse me, Carlos?"

I peeked at him. He was sitting straight up in his chair, forearms placed calmly on the desk in front of him, palms flat. His brown eyes were narrowed and his chin pointed out so far, it nearly pointed at the whiteboard.

"I said, why did you call on Abbi? Her hand wasn't up." Carlos's voice was calm but his eyes were shooting poison.

"Well, Carlos," he said slowly, as his neck then jowls then forehead burned an intriguing shade of red. "I'm asking because perhaps she could offer a…unique perspective, as her ancestors were so closely involved."

That's when Carlos lost his cool. "That's _bull_. Why don't you ask Joey or Leo or anyone else in this class about _their_ perspective?" He was leaning forward over his desk then, his fingers gripping the edge like it was the only thing holding him back from a full-on fit of rage. "Last time I checked, their ancestors were closely involved. Yours, too!"

He was sent to the principal's office for talking back but the smirk he shot me on the way out of the room told me it was all worth it. I blinked a quick thank you back at him. Mr. Hammond never called on me again during the Civil War lessons.

Carlos was brave, but you can only be brave for so long, and as I lie under the covers staring up at the ceiling, I can't stop wondering if four years was long enough to break him.

I had a hard time sleeping after the abduction. I would slip into my parents' room in the middle of the night and ask if I could stay with them.

"What's wrong, honey?" Mom would ask as she sat up in bed, the silk headscarf she slept in wrapped tightly around her hair.

I was thirteen; much too old to run to my parents' bed for comfort. I couldn't tell them that in the back of my mind, I thought that if this could happen to someone as good and kind as Carlos, it could happen to me, too.

But they never made me feel bad about it. Dad would say, "Can't shut off your brain?" and I'd nod and crawl into bed between them, instantly soothed by the rhythmic patterns of their breathing, the familiar smell of their room, the warmth of their sheets.

But that was four years ago, and Carlos is back. There's no reason to be scared unless I think about who took him, and still, it doesn't matter because that person is in custody. I've thought about that person often over the years. Man or woman? Black like me? Latino like Carlos? Or white like most everyone else in this town? I think about the pages and pages of sex offenders registered online in Minneapolis, how most of them have nothing in common except their desire to hurt people.

I fall asleep for a bit but I wake around two in the morning. I have to pee. I sit on the toilet for a while, wondering if the last few hours were a dream. Maybe I sat in the back booth at Casablanca's and finished my chemistry homework while Logan studied for trig and Camille worked on her poem for English. Maybe I ate that cup of mushy lentil soup and maybe Carlos isn't just two houses away from me after all.

My mother is in the hallway when I come out.

"Mama." I haven't called her that since I was a little girl. "Mama, did they really find him?"

She reaches out to me and we mold into each other. My nose is pressed into the crease of her armpit. She rests her cheek on top of my head.

"Yes," she says into my ear. Her voice is tinged with sleep, but most of all, it is content. "He's home."


End file.
